Hell Ship

Late in August, 3,000 of us had the order to move, thus we had visions of Italian vineyards, letters from home, Red Cross parcels and water, water, water. Ah, the thought that we could use water ad lib.

It was a very strong rumour that we were to be sent to Italy the next day and we knew that not until we arrived in an officially recognised prison camp could we write or receive letters. We had been prisoners now for over three months, those at home had no doubt received the War Office telegram, 'Missing, believed Prisoner of War'.

It was in the early hours of the morning when we marched out of Bengasi camp. March? Crawl was more like the operative word. A long, slow march, every step a terrible effort, and on arrival at the Cathedral Mole where we were told we could not go on board the ship until it had been unloaded. In the harbour, we could see the torn hull of a giant cargo ship, another on its side belching forth a German Panzer from the hold which was now under water. There it was rusting away, useless to the German Reich.

Our hope was that the RAF did not decided to bomb the Mole while we were there, because we would not stand a dog's chance.

For hours we sat on that quay, waiting to get away on board that ship. It was an Italian merchantman, Stella dalla Mare; Star of the Sea, by name. When the last box of ammo was unloaded, the guards led the first prisoners on board and at the first hatch, told them to climb over the top into the hold and climb to the bottom. Soon, the shouts of 'Presto!' were rending the stillness of the afternoon as the guards prodded the lads over the top.

At last it was time to go over. A ladder stretched down to the bottom, four decks down into the bowels of the ship. With Dutch courage, I climbed over the top and started climbing down, down, down; it seemed endless. The bottom at last. I looked around; it was so gloomy. I could hardly see a thing. 'Get off my bloody feet, mate,' says a voice. My eyes get accustomed to the gloom and I can see the conditions are like those at Derna camp, just enough room to sit down with knees up under my chin.

As the holds began to fill up, the heat became oppressive, and those men with dysentery could not climb the ladder owing to weakness, so just had to relieve themselves on the spot. When we had been below deck for about three hours, the smell became almost unbearable, and we should perhaps be here for two or three days. On the evening tide, the engines burst into life and one was reminded of a poem learned at school:

He saw the ocean liner ploughing the foam,
Saw her decks - heard the thrash of her screw,
He heard the passengers talking of home,
He saw the flag she flew